


Drown

by softlyue



Series: Gifts and Requests [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Isabela is a Good Friend, M/M, Non-Specific Hawke, violence and blood mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 04:58:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14253528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyue/pseuds/softlyue
Summary: Kiss Prompt for @mxyhxm on Tumblr -- "I almost lost you" kiss for FenHawke.A routine cleanup on the Wounded Coast. Perhaps they should have considered her warning after all.





	Drown

Isabela’s advice is good, but it’s dressed so lasciviously that sometimes they just don’t think to heed it. And her expertise is more in the world of bodies and boats, so a scuffle in the sand isn’t quite where he thought he should have listened.

But she also knows the sea and she knows its rage. Perhaps they should have considered her warning after all.

The storm beats on the coastline relentless and savage. Froth and foam and sand alike twist in the wind, blinding, and when he spits to clear his teeth, it’s a mix of blood and mucus and brine.

“Hawke!”

They got separated somewhere in the fight, between demons and pirates and storm. Lightning crashes over the sea in the distance and the shipwreck scattered across the sand illuminates broken and jagged, sundered pieces of wood and steel. Soon enough, the sea will wash the blood from the planks and the sun will bleach them beyond recognition, and the metal will rust and crumble, another layer of broken, beaten life on the shores of the Wounded Coast.

Fenris slides his greatsword back into the belt on his back as he stomps through the wreckage, toes digging for purchase between sand and weed. He storms over the bodies, careful where he steps, because they are not  _worthy_  of him, they were barely worthy of his blade, and shouts out into the gale again.

“ _Hawke_!”

The wreckage, damaged slavers bleeding out around them, craters where demons burst apart under Hawke’s blade - it’s chaos, and the sand is less white, more carnage, black and blood and bile mixed and tugged closer and closer into the tide.

Hawke is nowhere to be seen.

The storm helps Fenris lie to himself, to drown out the sick burst of panic, twisting anxiety that coils in his stomach and weighs him down like a block of stone. He shoves drenched white hair out of his eyes, forces them open wide through the rain and the whipping sand to see, to look, to find. His hands, body, glimmer - icy blue, and it hurts, and the pain feels good because this pain is real. He’s sore but tears through what’s left of the larger wreckage. The permeating, wet cold leaves his body for now, replaces with burning –self-loathing.

He startles himself, jumps a little, at his own voice cracking desperately into the wind. “Hawke! Where are you?!”

It is not silent, but it might as well be, and he tears through another pile of debris before finally, a pattern in the sand makes sense to him.

A heavy trail. Something wide being dragged…a body? A broadsword?

He takes off running, loses footing beneath and catches himself sliding, fingers in slimy sand as he gets back to his feet. Footprints, a handprint of lyrium echoes behind him in his steps. Better he look, seem, sound a threat. The trail is dotted with clumps of blood and ichor and reeks of demons and mana, and scurries away into an overhang under a jagged clump of obsidian.

Fenris steps into the little cavern with hands, eyes, body alight with rage, intent, ready to kill, ready even to  _die_ –

“What took you? Merrill’s nature walks rubbing off on you now?”

He smiles at Fenris, pained and bruised, and at the back of the cave - burrow, really - Hawke’s sword pins the corpse of a baby wyvern in the sand. Blood seeps through his clothes and around his hand across his middle, and Fenris takes stock one piece at a time, breaths shallow, almost present, as his mind catches up to reality.

Hawke is alive.

There is an empty potion bottle next to him. Hawke is healing.

This wyvern is dead.

The slavers are dead.

And they have not been pulled into the sea.

Hawke chokes like the wind’s been knocked from him as Fenris crashes into him, with lyrium thrumming hands pounding the stone wall so forcefully it cracks, and his mouth searing hot against Hawke’s. It doesn’t last long, and the lyrium burns out with Fenris’ fury, the flood of relief, and he throws himself away after a vengeful sinking of teeth into Hawke’s lower lip. A warning, and he’s overwhelmed with a wholly different kind of rage.

_I though I lo…_

Hawke licks his lower lip, as blood beads where Fenris bit him. He smiles crookedly, like a man drunk out of his mind. Fenris huffs and shakes his head, turns away with a sneer before Hawke leans forward and tugs him back by the studded plate of his vambrace.

“Harder, if you wouldn’t mind, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I  _hate_  you,” Fenris hisses, seethes, and proves it by kissing Hawke again, all dangerous need and desperation, anchoring himself in the mess of Hawke’s thick hair and the real, alive roughness of Hawke’s chapped lips against his. He tastes of salt, sweat, grime and…and relief; for all he knows, there’s no words for this visceral, shaking…not anger, but–

And as Hawke circles his arms around him, Fenris thinks–

–maybe he  _has_  been pulled into the sea, and…if Isabela had been right, well, far be it to resist. Fenris would rather drown.


End file.
